Open Letter to LLGA/M-ELA/Lucy

Dear Not-so-Little Baby with the Vast Assortment of Nicknames,

You've only been out and about for about as long as we knew you existed. This simple fact makes this exercise more challenging than I'd have expected. After all, one would think I'd have quite a stockpile of hopes, dreams, and girly-secrets to pass along. Especially having waited "so long" for a like-gender offspring.

Sure, your femininity offers some obvious observations. Trivial ones, such as my eureka! discovery that pink lint is more satisfying to peel away from the lint trap than grayish-blue lint. Practical ones, such as the cruel fact that diaper changing takes about 3-times as long with a pink-wearing tot. (Just when I'd reached Olympian-calibre Diaper-changing records, this 7 lb. 11 oz. curve ball knocked me back from the plate). Scary ones, that dawn upon me every time another young girl is kidnapped or mistreated. Our gender seems to have a higher propensity for this type of senseless tragedy. And whatever-you'd-term the ones that cause me to forget and then remember with surprise that I'm no longer the mom-with-all-the-boys.

Sorry, little baby, for all the times I've already called you "he", "him", and finally run down the list of boys' names before hitting upon a female equivalent. If you don't respond to your name, it's not just because there's such a myriad from which to pick -- it's probably because "Charlie!" worked for us more than once. For someone shopping Daily Tea, Gymboree, The Children's Place, and Hanna Andersson with aplomb and a keen ability to click "girls" this mental block to verbalizing feminine words is a bit enigmatic to contemplate.

But even as I dig out from a pile of girly hand-me-downs (girl moms seem to have more saved and preserved items to pass along than boy moms) and mentally prepare (in truth, gird my loins) for the eventuality that you may wear a foo-foo tutu or more likely, hit with a pink bat while wearing a pink batting helmet, it is reassuring to note that babies are babies. I don't know how long that will continue, but for now, it's comforting to reflect that Papa hasn't missed the Really Big Stuff.

For the fourth time (as I still have Jack's Open Letter to pen), I think "What Would Erma Write?" Here goes:

Despite the shortest time to do so, I always loved you best.

You were the only one of our babies to be fully analyzed before you were even named. While I'm no fan of the belly-poke required, there's something to "knowing".


You are proof that our Lord has a sense of humor ... or at least irony. You are evidence that St. Jude (Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes, including the pretty unlikely event that a genetic XX would grace our home) still has a lot of pull. You are a living demonstration of the power of intercession to the Blessed Virgin Mary.

You high-fived your OB minutes after your arrival, probably to communicate "way to elbow that med student out of the way...that was getting tedious already."
You gave Papa a full report after your arrival, probably your first, official tattle-tale story. Again, the med student was the likely subject...you didn't have a ton of material just yet.


You are pink. And polka dots. And lace trim. And flowers -- Sweet Heaven, you've been flowers. And those silly clip-bows in your rooster-comb top-knot. You are the beginnings of ringlets. You are blue eyes and the realization that blue is your color.

The description "good girl" seemed predestined for you. Not a screamer. In fact, you've graced more meetings in 9 months than most children will attend before adulthood.



You have made Papa's time in Iraq go a bit swifter on the homefront.
And your presence gives Papa a bit more to anticipate when returning home.


You been welcomed in person by women you will know and hear stories about throughout your lifetime: Grandma Mary Kay. Aunt Patty Cake/Auntie Awesome/Aunt Erin. Tia Kiki. Grandma Susan. Great-Aunt Trish. Great-Grandma Mary. And a group of Patties that most girls could only dream of meeting/meeting someday.



You are, perhaps, the Most Photographed Baby in the World. ("I don't drink yet, but in 20 years and 3 months, I plan to sip a XX. Stay Thirsty, My Friends.")
You are the baby whose audio has too many narrators. You are the baby whose video has random body parts whistle in and out of the frame. You are the baby whose baby book, though pink, resides on the Low Band of Confidence of Completion shelf.

You are a heart-shaped face on a heart-shaped baby-body. You are rolls upon rolls (or hamhocks, as Grandma Mary Kay insists they be called). The symmetry of your ample (in number and size) thigh creases, by the way, indicated perfect hips at a recent well-baby visit. On more than one occasion, I am forced to reckon that an experienced Mama learns something new with every go-round.



You are the latest reminder that life is a gamble. Even as we plot your every developmental milestone with a tiny exhale. Even as we watch you adore your crabby, crazy-cake, chaotic elder brothers. Even as we, internally, get to dream some new dreams -- getting to vary the plot line ever so slightly to incorporate some new possibilities: a First Communion veil, a pair of patent leather Mary Janes, a Cherry Ames reader, a worthy adversary in an eventual quarrel over the depth of a neckline of your prom dress, et cetera. You are above the 97th percentile in something already. That's something, even if only proof that my milk is fatty.

...

You are the end of the line. The final model. We think, we hope, and we pray that everything we have learned over the course of a decade-and-a-half gives you the best possible start on life. We know, we realize, and we understand that everything that has happened to our family in that same time-span gives you some extra degree-of-difficulty points to surmount.


You are you. We don't pretend to know what gifts (or what challenges) you'll bring to us.

We just know that you've already brought such joy.

Love,
Mommy